A triumphant smile of realisation breaks across my face.
I'm in a dream! I tell her. I am dreaming!
She twinkles at me.
And you—you're in my dream!
I reach out to hold her hands, and she lowers her head humbly, still grinning.
I have finally learned to lucid dream! It's just like what they say—knowing you're in a dream and being able to control what you dream of and what you do!
I look around.
I know this place: it's based upon the store I went to this morning, and I am currently taking my afternoon nap. This dream has been fabricated from my memories…
I stop short.
But you—I don't know you in reality. You're not from my memories of reality.
She looks up at me.
Or is that 'reality'? I start pacing. Her eyes follow me. Maybe this is reality. Perhaps I have known you all along in these seeming 'dreams' that are truly reality in disguise. Perhaps this is the explanation to my seeming lack of free will in what I have been calling the 'real world' all my life…
Her radiant smile has faded. She parts her lips to say something, but no syllable escapes. Impulsively I continue to ramble.
But then again, both reality and the dream world are mixtures of free will and going with the flow. Before this I did not have much free will in this realm. Before this I just swam along with the natural flow of my dreaming. Speaking of which, before this epiphany, what——
I am interrupted by a memory that strikes me:
Masked men were on my tail before I ran into her.
Many of them, fully armed.
Are they still after me?
Fear has now swallowed the lustre that had been on her face just a minute ago.
I hear hurried footsteps growing louder and shouts echoing through the corridors, ricocheting off the smooth concrete ground to shatter on the shelves of merchandise.
I turn to flee, but my legs grow heavier and heavier with each and every step.
The shelves around me dissolve to walls of dust and collapse in on me, further hindering my flight. I have lost the distance between the masked men and myself. They glide over the debris like ghosts, while the quicksand of merchandise still heavily obstructs my passage. My limbs have stopped following my orders and pleas.
So much for free will, I think.
I wake up.
Sidenote: "Fiction" for the fantastical elements, or "fact" for the fact that I really dreamed this?